A stationary sense... as, I suppose,
I shall have, till my single body grows
         Inaccurate, tired;
Then I shall start to feel the backward pull
Take over, sickening and masterful -
            Some say, desired.

And this must be the prime of life... I blink,
As if at pain; for it is pain, to think
           This pantomime
Of compensating act and counter-act
Defeat and counterfeit, makes up, in fact
            My ablest time.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 7160 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Philip Larkin
Poem: Maturity

Year: Published/Written in 1951
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